O SING unto my roundelay, 
O drop the briny tear with me; 
Dance no more at holyday, 
Like a running river be: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

Black his cryne as the winter night, 
White his rode as the summer snow, 
Red his face as the morning light, 
Cold he lies in the grave below: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 
Quick in dance as thought can be, 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; 
O he lies by the willow-tree! 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing 
In the brier'd dell below; 
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the nightmares, as they go: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

See! the white moon shines on high; 
Whiter is my true-love's shroud: 
Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

Here upon my true-love's grave 
Shall the barren flowers be laid; 
Not one holy saint to save 
All the coldness of a maid: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

With my hands I'll dent the briers 
Round his holy corse to gre: 
Ouph and fairy, light your fires, 
Here my body still shall be: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 
Drain my heartes blood away; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 
Dance by night, or feast by day: 
   My love is dead, 
   Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree.